


Imagine Guinevere Came to Storybrooke

by amycarey



Series: Imagine that Maiden Rock was a thing that happened [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe where Marian is alive, Because screw it, Crack, F/F, F/M, and pretty tired of people saying they thought she was dead, but mostly crack, some brief serious conversations about the lack of consent in Guinevere's relationship with Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/pseuds/amycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been six months now since The Rock came to Storybrooke and things are getting pretty Fast and Furious between him and Marian. She's sure she’s never been happier. When an unexpected relative arrives in town, however, Marian hopes she can Be Cool and help Guinevere find her own happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine Guinevere Came to Storybrooke

**Author's Note:**

> In my own personal head canon, Lancelot is The Rock of Camelot. A thousand curses at the dumpster, who are awful enablers of my drunken foolishness and I love them terribly.
> 
> (Maiden Rock is rather a case of me trying to make fetch happen.)

It is a warm May afternoon and Marian and The Rock are having coffee with Emma and Regina (well, Marian is having coffee. The Rock is drinking green tea because of the anti-oxidants and Emma is drinking hot cocoa because she is a _child_ ) and trying to pretend this isn’t a double date. She happens to glance up and sees a familiar face.

 

"Gwennie?" she exclaims. The woman at the door to the diner's face darkens into a scowl at the nickname before she looks more closely at Marian.

 

"Gods alive! Marian?" she cries. She bounds forward, pulling her into a hug. Guinevere smells of spice and fire, of tradition and family. Of home.  Marian wants to sob but she holds back her tears. "Is that really you?” Guinevere asks, pulling back and gazing intently at her. “I was told you were dead."

 

Marian sighs. She's really growing tired of people thinking that. "As you can see, I am very much alive."

 

Emma interrupts at this point.  "So, Marian, how do you know some lady from Camelot?" Regina smacks her thigh under the table and Emma yelps.

 

"Everyone," Marian says, clasping Guinevere's hand in hers. "This is my cousin, Guinevere.  Guinevere, everyone."

 

The Rock is the first to stand, holding a solid hand out to her cousin and beaming a smile as warm as the sun. "Welcome," he says and kisses her cheek. Marian has never loved him more.

 

"We've met," Regina says, eyeing Guinevere with the faintest distrust. Marian can't blame her exactly; Guinevere has always had appalling taste in men (though, in fairness, so does Regina) and Arthur did rather fuck things up for Regina and Emma for a while there. Though she would have relished an earlier opportunity to see her cousin once more, she’s rather pleased that she and The Rock chose that time to visit his family.

 

Guinevere smiles coolly. "Ah, yes. The Saviour. Or is it the Evil Queen? One cannot keep up these days."

 

"It's Regina," Regina says and her grip on Emma's hand tightens.

 

"So," Emma says after a long and deeply awkward silence, Guinevere and Regina sizing each other up. "You didn't go back to Camelot with the rest of them?"

 

"I am looking for someone," Guinevere tells Marian. "You won’t have met him, Marian, but I must know that he is alive in this world. About yay tall, dark skin..."

 

"Lancelot?" Marian asks and Guinevere looks surprised.

 

"How did–"

 

"There is a distinct lack of _colour_ in this town," Regina says. She eyes Guinevere for a long moment and appears to make her decision. "Welcome to Storybrooke, my dear." She holds out her hand and, after a moment, Guinevere clasps it in hers.

 

Marian smiles.

 

Later she is curled up on the couch using The Rock as a pillow. His fingers curl through her hair, and she is perpetually surprised at how delicate he is, how he treats her like she is something precious in spite of his size and strength. "It will be nice for you to have family in town," he says.

 

She smiles. "We were very close growing up. Her mother practically raised me after my own died." She remembers being sent to the neighbouring kingdom by her father and being greeted at the town square by her aunt Dolores, wrapped in a soft hug. She remembers her soft body, the glint of pearl in her eyes, those lips that never ceased smiling. Guinevere was so serious in contrast, shouldering responsibilities too young as the eldest child and then, later, as Arthur’s wife.

 

She hopes she can find happiness in Storybrooke, just as Marian has.

 

*

 

They meet for breakfast the next morning. Guinevere has a room at Granny’s and is most intrigued by much of what’s going on at the diner – though particularly impressed by the concept of French toast. The Rock is busy; his aqua jogging class is extremely popular on Saturday mornings and then he has promised to help Emma build upper body strength.

 

“He lives down by the water,” she tells Guinevere, pouring syrup over her pancakes.

 

She frowns, nibbling at the crust of eggy toast. “What if–”

 

“What if what?” Marian asks.

 

“What if he no longer wants me?” Guinevere asks. “It has been some time and I betrayed him most grievously.”

 

“Not by choice,” Marian says and feels the white-hot fury rise once more.

 

Guinevere had told her, in halting words, of what Arthur had done. “He did not wish to hurt me,” she had said and Marian had wanted to be sick that Guinevere was still conditioned to defend the monster. “He loved me.”

 

“He wanted to own you,” Marian had corrected. “You didn’t consent. For five years.” She’d contemplated suggesting Guinevere attended one of The Rock’s self-defence classes or possibly some sessions with Archie (even if she was still irritated by him, she had to admit he’d been a decent therapist most of the time), but suspected this was something Guinevere would need some time to adjust to.

 

“Still,” Guinevere says and changes the subject. “So, you are happy in this little town?”

 

“Very,” Marian says. It wasn’t always the case; she can still recall the long days stretching into emptiness and loneliness, kept sane only by her son, almost wishing Emma had never brought her back. She has friends now in Emma and, more surprisingly, in Regina. She has a job as a deputy sheriff (and there’s some irony there, she feels). She has The Rock.

 

Roland, who has been hanging out at the counter with Granny – who is his current idol because she can make pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse – comes bounding over. “Aunty Gwen,” he says. “You should come to my ballet recital next week.”

 

Guinevere smiles, though looks confused. “Dance,” Marian murmurs to her and Guinevere nods.

 

“I would love to, Roland.”

 

They go for a walk after breakfast, Roland bounding ahead (The Rock has suggested they get him a puppy to help him work off his limitless energy and Marian is considering it) and Marian steers them towards the waterfront. Sometimes Lancelot jogs there and, well, Marian’s only human.

 

(“Ridiculous,” Regina had said, “when you have the strongest man in town.”

 

Emma had pouted at this. “I’m strong,” she’d said and Regina had nuzzled her head against her collarbone.

 

“Of course you are, darling,” she’d replied and Marian had watched Emma’s face glow.)

 

They get lucky. “It’s Lancelot!” Roland cries and runs after him. Lancelot picks him up and swings him onto his shoulders like he weighs nothing. Marian smiles fondly, and looks across at Guinevere whose eyes have grown very wide indeed.

 

Lancelot looks over, his white teeth flashing into a grin, and then he sees her and freezes. “Giddyup!” Roland yells, kicking at Lancelot’s back.

 

Lancelot approaches, slowly. “Marian,” he says, nodding, and then looks at Guinevere. “My queen.”

 

Guinevere is still, frozen, her arms wrapped around herself even though it is a hot day for Maine. “Not queen anymore,” she says quietly, and Lancelot’s entire face is lit with hope.

 

“So…” Marian says after a far-too-long silence. “I should get Roland to Robin’s. Lancelot, could you walk Guinevere back to Granny’s?”

 

Lancelot nods. “It would be my honour.”

 

*

 

That night, The Rock takes her out for dinner, taking advantage of a rare Roland-free evening. He buys a bottle of champagne – she has never tasted it before and the bubbles tickle her nose, though not unpleasantly so. “To you,” he says, raising his glass to her.

 

“To us,” she replies and clinks her glass against his.

 

After dinner, The Rock suggests a walk and, hand in hand, they stroll the quiet streets of Storybrooke, ending up at the park, on the bench where she first poured her heart out to him, where she first suspected that her feelings were deeper than frustration. However, instead of sitting beside her, he kneels. “What are you doing?” she asks, stupid for a moment.

 

“Marian Álvarez,” The Rock says and she thinks that he might be crying, his voice hoarse and wet. “It has been the greatest privilege of my life coming to know you. I love you. Will you marry me?”

 

Marian starts laughing, the giggles welling up inside her. “Oh, my sweet, darling man,” she says when she manages to fight the tide of hysteria. “Of course.” The Rock takes her hand, sliding a pearl ring onto her finger and it’s so perfect.

 

(And honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover that he’d uncovered the pearl himself in some diving expedition. He is just that wonderful.)

 

For a long moment after there is no talking at all, Marian lost in the scent of him and the taste of tears and the silky skin beneath her fingertips.

 

*

 

She’s never been interested in an extensive wedding or a long engagement and The Rock is happy with whatever she wants. “The important thing is you and me,” he says. “You could be wearing your pyjamas for all I care.” So they decide on a civil ceremony at the next available opportunity, and a party afterwards.

 

(His only request is that he gets to bake the wedding cake, and Marian is all too happy to oblige him in this request.)

 

Still, when Emma hears about their engagement, she insists on organising The Rock’s bachelor party. “You’re not a bachelor,” Regina says and Emma scoffs.

 

“I almost beat The Rock in arm wrestling,” Emma says. “We’re bros.”

 

Marian fights back laughter. When she relays this to The Rock he smiles. “If it will make Emma happy,” he says. “Just, no strippers.”

 

And so it is that two nights before their wedding, she is summoned to a hen’s night. It’s just Regina, Guinevere and Marian, looking like nothing so much as the Coalition of Women of Colour, Storybrooke Chapter, as they lounge around Regina’s living room. Guinevere disappears to get the drinks and Regina crowns Marian with a plastic tiara with a veil attached. “Emma tells me one must have costumes,” she says, lips twitching as she steps back and looks Marian up and down.

 

“Oh my God,” Marian says, eyeing the finger food spread out across the coffee table. “You made _Tambran?_ ”

 

Regina shrugs. “I hope they taste okay. We spent a little time in your kingdom when I was married to… Well, at any rate, I found a recipe online that seemed familiar.”

 

The tangy tamarind flavour nearly makes her cry, she misses home so deeply. There’s something missing, a different type of flour being used or not enough salt, but it is so close and the effort Regina has made leads to her pulling her into a deep hug. For a moment, Regina stiffens, before she allows herself to be held.

 

It is at that point that Guinevere returns from the kitchen, with a pitcher of Margarita and several glasses. “You look ridiculous in that crown,” she says but her eyes are crinkled shut with smiling.

 

Conversation is stilted at first because Guinevere is too formal and Regina cold but two drinks in, the room warms. “You and Emma were not together when we first met?” Guinevere asks.

 

Regina shakes her head. “I don’t think we realised it was a possibility. I don’t think I considered I had a choice in the matter.”

 

“I was left without choice as well,” Guinevere says, swirling the slushy liquid and she doesn’t defend Arthur this time and Marian wonders if she went to see Archie after all.

 

“Choice isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Marian murmurs, squishing a Tambran between her fingers. “Look at Robin.” It’s unfair really – she loved him once, after all – but it makes Regina cackle and drain the rest of her glass.

 

“If I had had a choice all those years ago...” Guinevere says and there is such longing in her tone, but then she stops, standing suddenly and, to her credit, only swaying slightly. “Shall I make us more Margaritas?”

 

“Has she still not got her act together with Lancelot yet?” Regina asks when Guinevere is in the kitchen.

 

Marian shakes her head. Her cousin hasn’t spoken to her about Lancelot. She knows they walk together sometimes; she has seen them in the park in the twilight, hands barely touching. But Guinevere never speaks of him, except in terms of moments lost, and Marian’s heart aches for her.

 

“They’re both too stupidly honourable,” Regina says.

 

“I’ve had enough of honour,” Marian replies. “Give me honest decency any day.” Regina raises her nearly empty glass and toasts her.

 

Marian is past tipsy and taking the fast train to drunk when Regina’s phone rings. “It’s The Rock,” Regina says, an eyebrow raised. “Isn’t that against the rules, or something?”

 

“Not if he’s calling you,” Marian slurs.

 

Regina answers, putting her cell phone on speaker, and so it is that Marian can hear everything. “I’m really sorry to interrupt your evening,” The Rock says, his voice muffled by loud music. “But I think I’m going to have to drop Emma home soon. She’s had rather a lot to drink.”

 

Distantly, Marian hears Emma shrieking something that sounds rather like, “Fear me!”

 

Regina agrees and when she hangs up something registers with Marian. “Home?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

Regina blushes. “Nothing’s official.”  

 

They hear the trio coming up the steps; Lancelot is singing, crooning a romantic ballad in a low, sonorous voice, and the blood drains from Guinevere’s face. Emma stumbles into the lounge, clad in tight black leather and with hair that appears to be shellacked to her skull. “Regina,” she says, face intent and very close to Regina’s, though she is swaying in her stiletto boots. “I sacrificed myself for your happiness. Are you happy?”

 

Regina rolls her eyes, stepping back. “Idiot.”

 

“Not idiot,” Emma says. “Dork One. I mean, _dark_. I mean Dark Swan.” She lets out a screech, which Marian suspects might be Emma attempting to imitate a swan. It is a very good imitation of a swan if one imagines Emma has never heard a swan before in her life.

 

The Rock is fighting back laughter. “She… bought me a lot of shots and then drank them herself?” He had volunteered as the sober driver at his own Bachelor Party. “Someone has to look out for Emma,” he’d said.

 

“I suspect Dark Swan is going to have a hangover tomorrow,” Regina says, wrapping her arm around Emma’s waist and kissing her cheek.

 

“Dark Swan doesn’t get hangovers,” Emma insists. “Dark Swan _is_ a hangover.” She frowns. “That didn’t make sense, did it?”

 

“Time for bed, I think,” Regina says. “Guinevere, are you okay to get home?”

 

“Lancelot, you’ll walk Gwennie back to Granny’s, right?” Marian says, emboldened by the liquor. Guinevere glares at her and she grins back.

 

Lancelot nods. “It would be my privilege,” he says. “Farewell, friends.” He pulls Emma into a fierce hug, before repeating the action with The Rock (though with him he also kisses him on each cheek) and escorting Guinevere into the night.

 

Marian watches Regina encourage Emma upstairs; she has become limpet-like, clinging to Regina, kissing her cheeks and neck, crooning, “you’re happy, right? I make you happy? Please?”

 

“Shall we?” The Rock asks, and Marian takes his hand and walks with him to the car.

 

From the passenger seat, she smiles sleepily across at him. “You’re really great,” she says. “I’m so glad I’m marrying you.”

 

“You’re pretty great yourself, Álvarez,” The Rock says and Marian lets herself drift off to sleep, head against the window pane. She only vaguely remembers him carrying her inside and putting her to bed, though she knows she is comforted by his presence, by his arm curled around her waist and the warmth of his skin.

 

*

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be a bundle of nerves?” Regina asks, smoothing the folds of her own dress.

 

Marian shrugs. “How can you be nervous marrying The Rock?” She scoops up Roland, dressed in a suit and bowtie, and wipes her thumb at the corners of his mouth. “And who’s been feeding you chocolate, my son?”

 

“Guilty,” Guinevere says, entering the room. “Oh, Marian…”

 

She’s not wearing white. She’d worn white at her first wedding, “and Roland is proof enough that that particular ship has sailed,” she’d told Regina, who had laughed.

 

“When I marry Emma, I’ll wear red,” she’d told her and Marian had raised an eyebrow at ‘when’, though had said nothing.

 

Instead she wears yellow and the light, floaty dress barely hits her knees and she walks through Storybrooke, towards the park, where their small ceremony will be held, hand-in-hand with Roland and laughing. They dance down the aisle together and she is reminded of weddings when she was a child, of brides dancing to the altar with their fathers and feels the loss keenly. But The Rock is there and he is smiling like he’s just won the lottery and everything is rather a blur after that.

 

She finally has a moment to take a breath at their first dance and as the music rings out, she rests her head against his chest, breathing in his scent, fresh baking and spice, which is so inexpressibly him.

 

And she watches Guinevere, watches as Lancelot sidles over, standing beside her, his arm ghosting hers. She watches as he holds out his hand and Guinevere takes it and they walk together onto the dance floor.

 

Guinevere had been tight-lipped about the end of the hen’s night. “He’s a true gentleman,” was all she had said, but Regina had found out from Granny that she hadn’t been back to the bed and breakfast that night. She imagines they’d talked. She imagines they’d needed to – about Arthur and his violation, among other things.

 

Later, she sits with Henry Mills, while The Rock dances with Regina. “Ugh,” he says, watching his mom. “If she’d played her cards right, I could have had The Rock as my step-dad.”

 

“He keeps whining about that,” Regina says, smiling as The Rock whirls her past them. They stop, Regina’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “I told him you deserved to win this time.”

 

“You’re pretty happy though, aren’t you?” Marian asks.

 

Regina’s gaze drifts to Emma, who is teaching Roland to waltz (though Marian has her suspicions that a waltz should not involve quite so many of the gestures for the chicken dance). “I’m trying to think of how I could be happier,” Regina says, “but I’m coming up short.”

  
Marian smiles. “I think we’re all pretty happy with our choices,” she says, taking The Rock’s steady hand in her own, and, together, the four of them watch as Lancelot guides Guinevere around the dance floor.


End file.
